


Of Monsters and Men

by ilokheimsins



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:38:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8558173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilokheimsins/pseuds/ilokheimsins
Summary: They call Arthur an angel, pure as the newfallen snow and clad in white. They call Eames a beast, slavering with teeth that could tear a man apart. And yet, none cast a shadow deeper than those with the brightest light.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for i-reverse bang for this [here](http://imgur.com/WWMOhfv)!!

His mother kneels down in front of him, haggard, with bruises pressed into her cheeks so deep Arthur can hardly see beyond them to her warm amber eyes.  She presses her hands into his plump cheeks.  Her fingers are thin from running for so long without proper food and they tremble as she runs her thumbs lovingly across what will someday be devastating bone structure but is still just a gentle cushion of baby fat now.

She kisses his forehead and then both his eyelids and when she pulls away, her eyes are bright with tears.

“I need you to do something for me,” she whispers.

Arthur nods.  His mother is a creature of light and noise; she burns bright and fast and laughs like there must be a hundred souls within her.  It’s only ever when she’s quiet that she’s serious.  And this is serious.  Arthur still has nightmares of the warm spatter of blood from his father before his mother dragged him out the back door of their home and ran into the woods.

“Arthur, darling,” she says, softly, and sniffles.  She clutches him tight and Arthur, for some reason, feels an incredible sense of finality, like this is going to be the last time he ever sees her.  So he clings tight and buries his nose deep into her neck to catch the last remnants of her sunflower scent.

“Arthur, I need you to run,” she tells him.  She pulls back and stares deep into his eyes, expression unlike any that Arthur has ever seen before.  “I need you to run and I need you to use your words.”

“But, mom, you said I couldn’t.”

“I know,” she whispers.  “I know I did.  But I need you to now.  Use them to protect yourself and to protect others like us.”

Her eyes harden then.

“Protect us from the monsters.”

***

His mother is dead.  He can feel it in the soul wrenching burst of something that wipes him out in the forest.  He remembers her telling him about the transference of power.  One day, she had said, he would come into his own and then when she died, his power would meld with hers.  They had just never expected it to happen the other way round.

There are footsteps a ways behind him and Arthur scrambles to wedge himself into a small dark space between some trees.  The sound of crunching leaves slow and men pour into the clearing, guns held in a ready position.  They spread out and an older man walks out, face deceivingly benevolent.  He carries some of Arthur’s mother’s shirt in his fist and Arthur shoves his own into his mouth to keep from screaming.

“Come out, little fortune teller,” the man calls.  “I’ve got something for you.”

Arthur bites into his fist until he tastes blood and then he steps into the clearing to speak.

***

The humans call him a beast tamer.

Arthur, clad in white, they say, to show that he can move among them without ever being dirtied.  To show that the beasts, with their teeth and claws and wild, mad eyes give him a reverence that they give no others, a deference that is buried deep in their souls, only to be drawn out by this angel in white.

Arthur makes no effort to correct them.

***

The beasts call him their savior.

Their eyes track this man, wrapped in white, as he follows their captorjailer _HATEDFEARED_ on a tour of them.  They watch his eyes scan everything and take in everything, cataloguing each little detail like a god that has endless time and memory.

Arthur has no need to correct them.


	2. Chapter 2

Mal, smoke and seduction and dangerous beauty, kisses his cheek every morning and calls him mon oiseau because he freed her from the place where they thought her mad and tried to hide her from the world.  She remembers the smell of fire and the sound of wood as it snapped around her when she wend her way towards the little humans that thought they could keep her.  She remembers the warm wash of blood on her hands and the delightful cottony swirl of their souls as she drank them down.  And she remembers, most of all, Arthur waiting for her by the burning steps to lead her away to this safe place that she now calls home.

She flutters off to Cobb, who bumbles about – never quite as in tune with himself as the rest who inhabit Arthur’s home like an ever expanding collection of puppies.  Arthur helped Cobb steal secrets that brought his prison down, he left keys just in reach and tidbits of information just within hearing, and Cobb crept out one night, under the slivers of the moon peeking through the clouds, and stole them all with his mind.  It’s cathartic, and a fitting irony, that his captors are now the ones that rot in a prison.  Mal, of course, disapproves.  She says he should have burned them to the ground like she did hers but he was always a gentle soul and she says she will be the monster for them both.

Ariadne dashes past, shouts a quick greeting, and then barrels out the door with her arms full of her school materials and half shoving a breakfast bar in her mouth.  She was on her way to a facility, had just rolled in through the gates, when Arthur found her.  She remembers how he calmly and quickly lied to the drivers who couldn’t hear his lies, but she could, oh, she could.  His eyes, so deep and warm, flashed with mirth when he saw her looking.  A secret to keep then, a game!  Ariadne so did love games and so she kept the secret, kept it as she watched him put the guards to sleep and set her free.  She kept it when he told her to go make mischief and watched her, proud as a parent should be, as she darted into the night and did.  She kept it when he bundled her up to pick wood chips out of her hair and to tsk about letting herself get dirty.  She keeps it now when Arthur yawns with morning breath and pads around the house in sweatpants so old the only thing keeping them up is his arse.

Yusuf was human, unlike the others, simply taken in because he liked to experiment.  He blew his own way out with chemicals, which was how Arthur found him, sneezing in the remnants of his slightly more potent than expected bombs.  He tells the story of how he agreed to go with Arthur, leaving out the very long and involved lecture Arthur gave him about clearing explosives with him because there were other people inhabiting the area.  He also leaves out how Arthur gave him more chemicals and told him to free the rest.

Saito is a dragon, older than the human inkling of time could ever wish to be.  He has seen empires rise and fall; he has tipped more than he can count himself.  He is also the only in Arthur’s little menagerie, a name the rest say playfully and that he regards with a hidden amusement, that did not leave destruction in his wake to be here.  There were no captors for Saito, none that walk the earth today would be wise enough nor powerful enough to do so.  He simply showed up one day when he felt the pull of fate, a thing he has long learned to follow, with the silky command to be let in to stay.  And Arthur, bemused and still sleep warm, agreed.

His fate turns out to be Robert, who pouts prettily when Saito ignores him in favor of other pursuits and who turns colder than ice when angered or frightened.  Saito coaxed him into letting Arthur out of where he had accidentally frozen the man to a wall when Arthur worked his magic to free Robert.  It was with reluctance that Robert did, mumbling arguments all the while at Saito about suits and his dead father and his godfather selling him off.  A freak, Robert spat out, a freak is what Browning saw him as and a freak is what the suits saw and the doctors and they called him mad when he said he could conjure ice.  Here, Saito will tell him eventually, they are all, as the world sees fit to call them, freaks.  Arthur is the darkest and the most demonic of them, and Saito thinks, with a dark satisfaction, that it is amusing to watch others call him an angel.

They are a home, a dysfunctional one to be sure, and Arthur sometimes wishes he didn’t have to wake up to Ariadne sleeping on his leg and Yusuf on his other leg, Mal and Cobb crushed into one side of him, Robert and Saito on the other.  But he wouldn’t trade it for the world, certainly would not rather them back in their facilities to be prodded and poked and experimented on.

They, in turn, collect around Arthur, like vicious dogs around a beloved master, and all come to the agreement that perhaps, Arthur needs a someone.   Just like Cobb is Mal’s someone and Yusuf is Ariadne’s someone and Robert is Saito’s someone, Arthur too requires a someone.

He laughs at them, fond and warm with eyes glittering like the sun through whiskey, and says that he is fine and then leaves for work, their confusion at his not wanting a someone behind him.  The notion of not desiring one leaves even Saito perplexed, though he knows that there must have been a time – a long stretch of it – where he, too, did not want a someone.  But now, as he presses a fond kiss to Robert’s hair, he cannot imagine it at all.

***

They call him a monster; a slavering, slobbering beast that needs to be muzzled and chained, so they do.  They shove a gag in his mouth when he opens his mouth to roar and bind him in iron when he fights.  They drag him across dirt and gravel and terrain so sharp it tears at his skin.  They tow him like a sled, bound to the back of a truck, exhaust spitting in his face and clogging his lungs.

He has never wanted to hurt anyone more than the blurred figures that buzz about him, excitedly yapping about how he’s the first of his kind to have been brought in.  Beastforms don’t let themselves get caught.  They’re too good at hiding, too good at blending in, they have an animal form that lets them hide – the snatches of conversation flit in and out around him and he thinks, exhaustion sunk into his bones, that he was good at hiding away once upon a time but something called to him and he stepped out to answer it despite his qualms.

They want to know what he is – all the ones who brought him in can say is that there was a whirling mass of fur and claws and teeth and then suddenly there was a man, a feverish wild eyed man – but he simply closes his eyes and lets the world fade away.

***

“You could, you know,” Ariadne insists.  She’s sitting on the breakfast counter, a habit Arthur hasn’t been able to break her of, her feet kicking back and forth daintily.  The image of delicacy, therefore, is ruined when she shoves half a piece of toast in her mouth in one go.

“I don’t think I will,” Arthur says for the thousandth time.

“Mon oiseau, we just want you to be happy,” Mal calls from where she’s invested in trying not to burn their omelets.  She’s not doing very well.

“I am happy.  I have all of you.”

Mal dumps the burnt omelets in the trash, evidently giving up on them as a lost cause, and turns to face him square on.

“You need a someone,” she says firmly.

“I don’t need a someone,” Arthur replies with the ease of long familiarity.  Their argument is warm, like a treasured childhood blanket or a good chocolate chip cookie, and Arthur can hold up his side of it through wind, rain, or storm.

“I have more than enough on my plate,” he continues as he zips up his jacket.

“Pssh,” Mal scoffs.  “You walked around in those hideous pants all day yesterday.  I will burn them.”

“Mmhmm,” Arthur hums, as he does whenever Mal threatens to burn his sweatpants.  He puts his cheek out for her daily kiss and she huffs as if it is all a great chore to her before obliging.

“Don’t make too much trouble,” he says in lieu of goodbye and Ariadne, at least, has the decency to answer him.

***

He’s pressed against the bars, flickering between man and beast, his face shoved between two of them as far as it will go before he might get stuck.  Something is coming; he can feel it rumbling through the air, the tug of it behind his abdomen, the slow suffusion of scent in the air that’s more potent than a siren call.

Something is coming.

And it’s going to be his.

***

Arthur catalogues the types of bars in this particular facility, the layout, the wariness of its current inhabitants.  He flips through the list that they’ve given him that details all current ‘patients’ and their conditions.  His guide is still talking, though Arthur is only half listening.  It’s all canned bullshit anyway, nothing actually useful – just the stuff corporate tells their minions to say.

What’s more interesting is the last file in the sheaf.  All it has is a patient ID at the top and a classification declaring “beast”.  Arthur has never, not in all his years, seen a beastform.  They don’t come out of the wild very often, preferring to sink deep into nature and only rarely emerge in their human form.  That this one was caught at all is a wonder.

Patient 34M35.

“Who’s this?” Arthur asks after he checks that there’s no picture or any other information on the back.

“Newest acquisition,” the man – Dylan or Derek or Devin or something – says, perking up immediately.  “This way.”

He leads Arthur deeper into the facility.  Here, the cells are farther apart and deeper.  The lights don’t reach all the way back and eyes, so bright they glow, peer at him from the darkness.  Arthur can smell the sharp snap of ozone that accompanies elemental conjurers, the wet earthy green of moss and peat of the witches, and the vaguest hint of spun sugar that follows the fae.  It all gives way to a scent that reminds Arthur of the deepest parts of the world, where the air is so crisp it burns, and yet holds all the beckonings of a warm fire on a cold night.  He’s sharply intrigued by the time DirkDeaconDon leads him all the way down the hall.  The cell at the end, and it is a cell no matter how they try to pretty the word up, is completely dark.

The man, Devin – Arthur remembers suddenly, gives a nervous laugh and wrings his hands together.

“Um.  He’s a bit.  He took out the lights the first day,” he tells Arthur.

“I’ll start here, then,” Arthur informs Devin brightly, giving him the smile that still somehow convince people he’s one of them.

***

That no one has cottoned on to the fact that Arthur is a common thread between every supernatural containment centre self-destructing is something of great amusement to those crowding Arthur’s home.

Or perhaps they have but Arthur’s smile, the one that makes him look years younger and like he’s never done a thing wrong in his life, still has them all fooled.

***

Devin is gone as soon as Arthur tells him it’s okay to leave.  The man speed walks back down the hall and Arthur waits until the door at the end of the corridor shuts behind him before he turns back to the cell.

“Darling.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow at the word.  It’s barely even that, if he’s being honest.  It’s a collection of sounds, roughly grated together in a voice that’s more a soul deep rumbling than anything understandable.  He watches as eyes, grey and bright like beacons in the dark, suddenly blink open and move toward him.

“34M35. But I’m sure you have a better name,” Arthur says, eyes flicking down to the paper to make sure he’s correct.

“Eames,” the voice grates out again.  He eventually comes forward enough that the light in the hall, scantly penetrating the darkness in the cell, illuminates him.  He reaches a hand through the bars, massive compared to Arthur’s, and his fingertips, rough but clean, brush just barely against his hand.

“Darling,” he tries again.  This time the word sounds more cogent and Arthur suppresses the needle spike of irritation at the familiarity.

“You need to shave,” Arthur observes.  “I’ll put in a request for a shaver set.”

Eames draws his hand back to swipe at his face, nose and forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“What’s wrong with my beard?”  The words are croaky and too hard in some places, too soft in others, like their speaker hasn’t had occasion to use them in years.

“There’s too much of it,” Arthur tells him.

Eames mouth gapes open in shock.  He looks like a child that’s just been told Santa doesn’t exist and his other hand comes up to shield his beard.

“Darling,” he says, absolutely scandalized.

“Arthur,” Arthur corrects.

“Darling Arthur,” Eames negotiates.

Arthur pins him with the stare that makes even Mal agree to stop doing things and Eames bares his teeth in the semblance of a grin in response, showing off the way they all come to rounded points.

“You’re a beastform, then?” Arthur prompts.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days.”

His speech is smoothing out and as it does, a lush accent comes through, all rounded vowels and softer consonants.

“It is,” Arthur says, tapping a finger against his clipboard.  “I still prefer the old term.  And I think most weres do in general.”

He raises his eyebrows at Eames again.

“No, you’re correct,” Eames says.  “Were it is.”

“How did they catch you?”

Eames looks mildly sheepish for a moment and then he shrugs.  It’s as if a small mountain moves when his shoulders, at least as large as Arthur’s head each, roll up and down.

“I felt a calling,” Eames tells him.

“Ah,” Arthur says, as if he knows.  And he does, in some ways.  He knows that it was the call that brought Saito down from the skies to covet Robert and the call that actually means Mal listens when Dom tells her not to kill.  He knows Ariadne feels it for Yusuf but that Yusuf will never feel it for her, being human as he is.

Arthur knows that he has been ignoring it since many months ago, when Mal looked at him one morning and seemed to scent out that he had begun to feel the pull.

“Fate has finally come knocking,” she had said.

Arthur had laughed and said, “I am fate.  I didn’t choose this.”

Mal had just given him a look, eyes wide and so old for a moment, before whispering, “Arthur, you are fortune and destiny but even fate must come for you one day.”

Eames reaches out for him again and this time Arthur lets him slide his rough fingers in against his slimmer ones.  Arthur lets himself have this for a moment before he pulls back and clears his throat.

“So what sort of beast are you?”


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur hates this particular facility like he has no other.  There’s something about this one, the size of it maybe or how it has labs perfectly equipped to rip apart the supernatural like no other has.  It’s almost as if whoever owns it knows exactly what they’re doing, in a way that none of the others before have.

It’s eerie and it puts Arthur on high alert.  He’s managed to put off any experimentation for the time being by saying that he needs to carefully inspect the records being kept.  Rifling through the system only serves to make him antsier.  The center is keeping mid-level fae who are powerful enough to break out of the usual traps.  There are runes carved into the cages of the fae that Arthur has only ever seen in books and stories.

“They burn us,” Tkthla tells him when Arthur stops by to get a closer look.  He places a hand over one of the faintly humming symbols and the scent of roasting flesh fills the air immediately.  Tkthla furrows his brow as he removes his hand and they both watch as the old skin peels away to reveal new skin.  He snarls at the confines of his cage and leans forward to place his hands on Arthur’s cheeks.  His eyes brighten with sudden understanding and he nods.

“The new Wyth-hala,” he murmurs.  His features are typical to the fae – so sharp they could cut – but they soften slightly as he continues to search Arthur’s face.  “I am sorry for the loss of your mother.  Her words saved many of us and so, I am sure, will you.”

He retreats back into the shadows of his cell before Arthur can recover from his shock to ask for further clarification.

***

Arthur’s unease with the place only continues to grow after his conversation with Tkthla.  He inspects the elementals next, all of which are at least mid-tier beings who should have been capable of breaking free.  Mal herself is a high-tier elemental and it had taken every effort to keep her locked down – to the point where it had been impossible for them to keep any other beings.  That this facility can keep multiple elementals is something Arthur has never seen before.  The elementals are all in special cages designed to keep them at their weakest; the elements they’ve been entrenched in are the strongest possible grade money can buy.

“I don’t like it,” Arthur tells Mal the night after he inspects them.  “Whoever owns that facility has money and connections.”

“I can kill them for you,” Mal says breezily as she waltzes around the living room with Cobb.

“Or Saito can,” Robert pipes up from his position on the couch.  He neatly pulls his feet out of the way of Mal’s sky high heels as she whirls by.

“I can burn them better,” Mal butts in as she whizzes by the kitchen where Arthur is brewing coffee.

“Saito is stronger,” Robert argues.

“Mon petit,” Mal sighs, as if she’s talking to a particularly stubborn child, “a dragon is hardly subtle.”

“Neither is a fire,” Robert fires back.

“Yes but at least fires occur in the human world,” Mal says and then Cobb crashes into a lamp and yanks Mal down with him as he collapses.

“No to the both of you,” Arthur orders.  “I’ll figure this out myself.”

Mal props her elbows on Cobb – who grunts at the impact but otherwise doesn’t move – and eyes him owlishly.

“If you are sure, oiseau,” she says.  “If you are sure.”

***

“Darling,” Eames pouts ferociously when Arthur walks up and he paws at Arthur’s limp hand.  “You’ve been away for so long, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” Arthur snaps out.

“Kitten?  Pet?  Lovely?”

“No.”

“Kitten!”

“Eames, I will ask them to stop giving you food,” Arthur says without missing a beat.  Eames is silent for a long moment and when Arthur looks up, it’s to see Eames’ bottom lip wobbling under the saddest pair of puppy eyes Arthur has ever had the dubious honor of seeing.

“Fine,” he huffs, “you can call me darling.”

“Darling!” Eames perks up immediately.

“Disgusting is what you two are,” Morwena calls out from her cell.

“We’re in love,” Eames says proudly, puffing up.

“We are not,” Arthur refutes.

Morwena, the high witch of a coven – yet another tick in the long list of things making Arthur antsy about the facility, rolls her eyes and gives Arthur an incredibly disapproving look.

“You’re tied to one another.  And you, Wyth-hala, are the only one who insists on refusing it,” she says.

Eames sneaks his hand into Arthur’s as Arthur turns to face Morwena.

“Tkthla called me Wyth-hala as well,” Arthur says.

Morwena’s eyebrows go up and she hums thoughtfully.

“It means something along the lines of fate,” she says finally.  She nods decisively, “Yes.  You are fate.”

“I am a fortune teller,” Arthur says, “not fate.”

Morwena shakes her head.

“A fortune may not come true.  But when you speak of someone’s destiny, it always comes to pass,” she says patiently.  “Is that not a fate?”

“No,” Arthur says stubbornly, which gets a small huff of laughter out of Morwena.

“You are stubborn,” she says.  “But it matters not.  You will learn.”

“Darling,” Eames butts in.  “I thought you came to see me.”

“You’re an overgrown child,” Morwena says.

Eames sticks his tongue out at her and resumes petting Arthur’s hand with his thumb.

“I did come to see you.  It’s your turn to do this survey,” Arthur says and slaps down a thick sheaf of paper into Eames’ free hand.

“On second thought, darling, I think I would prefer you didn’t come to see me,” Eames says forlornly as he stares at the paper.

“Nope,” Arthur replies cheerfully.  “I even brought you a pen.”

He wrangles his hand free and puts a pen in its place.

“Have fun,” Arthur says as he walks away.

“Darling!  Arthur!  Kitten!  This is torture!  Inhumanity!” Eames calls as he goes.

Arthur doesn’t reply, but he does allow a small smile to cross his face at the bloom of affection when he hears Eames call his name.

***

“You are happy today,” Mal says suspiciously.

“I’m happy every day,” Arthur replies smoothly.

“No, oiseau, today you are strangely happy,” Mal says, eyes narrowing further.

Arthur concentrates on the food before him as Mal leans in and takes a deep inhale.  She shrieks happily, shocking Arthur into dropping his fork, and clutches at Ariadne.

“Arthur has found the someone,” she announces to the table at large.  Ariadne tries, without success, to catch her fork as it bobs past when Mal shakes her.

“Do bring him home so that we may meet him,” Saito says regally and Arthur has a momentarily terrifying thought of Saito playing at a father figure.  Saito merely raises one brow imperiously as if he can read Arthur’s thoughts.

“Yes, yes,” Mal says, “bring him home.”

“I have to get him out first,” Arthur says.

“Tsk, oiseau, I have already told you I will burn the place.  Much easier,” she shakes her head.

“No, Mal.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Darling!  You’ve come to see me again!”

“Because you haven’t filled out the survey properly.  Again.”

“Ah,” Eames doesn’t even have the decency to look chastised.  “I just get so bored.  It’s so very long and thick.”

Arthur grits his teeth and resists the urge to rub at his forehead.  Eames just winks and smirks salaciously.

“You’re just lucky you delaying everything gives me more time,” he grumbles.

“Arthur, pet, are you just going to ignore my innuendo?  I thought it was clever,” Eames says and reaches for Arthur’s hand.  Arthur sighs, though it’s more for show than out of any real irritation, and holds his hand out for Eames to take.

“Please just tell him it’s clever so he stops asking me about it,” Morwena groans.

“You’re really just a large dog, aren’t you,” Arthur says.

“That’s hurtful, darling.  It really is.  I’m a werebear,” Eames sniffs haughtily. 

“Finish your survey.”

“If I do, will you kiss me?”

Arthur turns away from Morwena to goggle at Eames, who flutters his lashes and affects his best innocent face.

“What?”

“A kiss, darling.  Surely you’ve heard of them.”

“When you get out, I’ll kiss you,” Arthur says and extracts his hand from Eames.

“Darling, is that a promise?” Eames calls as Arthur heads back out.

“Finish your survey,” Arthur says in lieu of answering.

“Arthur, pet!  My kiss!”

Arthur closes the door on the sounds of Eames wheedling for a kiss and Morwena telling him to shut up.

***

“You spend a lot of time in the lower level,” Devin remarks one day by the coffee machine.  “I think it’s great that you’ve got the courage!”

“Oh?” Arthur murmurs over his own drink.

“Yeah,” Devin nods, “the supes we keep down there kinda terrify me.”

He shrugs and then, after a quick peek around, lowers his voice to say, “They kinda terrify all of us to be honest.  You’re the first one that they haven’t tried to maul or curse.  I guess that’s why everyone calls you a beast tamer.”

“I suppose,” Arthur allows and takes a long sip of his coffee.

“I’ve got to head back but, hopefully the rest of your day goes well,” Devin says after a glance at his watch.

Arthur slowly downs the rest of his coffee and then makes his way down to the lower levels, a new cup in hand.  He passes the brew to Morwena, who closes her eyes in rapture at the scent of it.

“They call you a beast tamer?” Eames asks, eyes bright with mirth and shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed laughter.  The question earns him an exasperated eye roll and a fond smile.

“I suppose they do.”

“Have you tamed beasts other than me?  Morwena, is this anguish I’m feeling?”

“Leave me to my coffee,” Morwena says and goes back to making noises of contentment over her drink.

“Nay, darling Arthur, I do believe it’s jealousy,” Eames says dramatically and clutches at Arthur’s hands.

“I think I liked it better when you couldn’t talk,” Arthur says fondly.

“Because I was more handsome?”

“Because you weren’t as ridiculous.”

“Only for you, Arthur.  Someone has to make you smile,” Eames says and flashes a kid on Christmas smile.

“And you’ve taken on that task, have you now.”

Eames’ face softens and he leans in closer to say, “For as long as you’ll have me.”

The moment snaps when Morwena butts in with, “You’re ruining my coffee.”

“And on that lovely note,” Arthur says, “I have other things to do today.  Preparations for the escape.”

“You’re finally getting us out?” Morwena asks.  “Took you long enough.  You could have just jail broke us early on.”

“That won’t take out whoever owns this place,” Arthur tells her.  “I need to get rid of them to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

Morwena quiets in consideration of this and then nods, “Alright then, Wyth-Hala.  I will defer to you on this.”

***

“Arthur!”

Arthur turns away Eames’ cell and looks up from his clipboard to see Devin heading over, an old man in tow.  He swallows down the sudden burst of fear and rage when he recognizes the man, instead plastering on a polite smile.

“Devin,” he greets with a nod.

“Arthur, this is Director Browning.  He owns and funds this facility,” Devin explains.

“Pleasure,” Arthur says, baring his teeth in a parody of a pleased smile.

“Arthur is the consultant we brought in.  So far, he’s done good work in verifying our records and giving us new information on the supers hosted here,” Devin explains brightly.

“So he has,” Browning says.  “I’ve seen the work you’ve done.  It’s very thorough and well organized.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says flatly.

“A particular interest in the beast though, eh?  I don’t blame you.  It’s very rare that they come out and even rarer that they get caught.  We’re very proud of that specimen,” Browning continues on.  He cuts a glance over to Arthur.  “Though I’m sure in your illustrious career as a consultant you’ve seen many.”

“No,” Arthur grits out.  “I can’t say I have.  Most facilities I’ve been to haven’t had the resources.”

“Ah yes, smaller facilities,” Browning says condescendingly.  “Often so poorly funded.  We have enough money to be beyond such trivialities.  You’re very lucky to work here, you know.”

“I really am,” Arthur says.  “It’s an opportunity to do some big things.”

“…Indeed,” Browning says.  Something that could be called a smile, if one were overly generous, flits across his face and he claps a hand down on Arthur’s shoulder.

“We need ambitious people like you here.  I’m sure you’ll do brilliantly,” He says.  “Devin, how does the upstairs look?  Are the lab rooms almost ready?”

“Oh, yes!  We can take a look if you’d like.”

“Nothing would please me more, my good man,” Browning says and heads for the stairs, Devin scuttling after.

The door has barely swung shut when Eames lunges forwards, teeth bared in a snarl.  His eyes are red as he glares at the door.

“I don’t like that man,” he rumbles out.  “He smells like death and the pain of others.”

“A lot of people smell that way,” Arthur says stiffly.

“And he makes you stink like fear,” Eames growls.  “You fear none but you fear him.”

“He killed my mother,” Arthur says flatly.

The words hang in the air for the longest time and Arthur stares resolutely at the floor, unwilling to see the pity on Eames’ face.

“Arthur,” Eames says softly.  “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.  It was years ago.”

“Arthur,” Eames says again and finally Arthur looks up.

“You do get to be sad about this,” Eames says.

“It was years ago,” Arthur repeats stubbornly.

“It still happened.”

“Yes it did,” Arthur admits.  “And I was sad about it years ago.”

Eames pauses and says fondly, “Yes, I suppose you were.”

***

“Um, Arthur?”

Arthur looks up from his mountain of paperwork to see Devin fidgeting at the door.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a start date on the experiments?  The director is getting impatient,” Devin continues.

“Devin,” Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose.  “Do you see this mountain of paperwork.  This has to be finished before we can start anything.”

“Oh, yes!  For sure, but it’s just—”

“Devin, I’m going to tell you a secret,” Arthur interrupts.  “If you let me do it, I’ll finish it faster.”

“Right.  Yeah, sure.  I’ll just go,” Devin says and gently closes the door as he leaves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic ended up being a lot shorter than I anticipated, courtesy of real life punching me in the face pretty hard. I kind of want to write more in this verse so that might be coming up at some point as well :)

Arthur startles awake when something lands on his face.  The creature hisses at him and nips him on the hand just for good measure when he swats at it.  He fumbles for the light and the creature settles when the room brightens.

It blinks curiously at him and when it opens its mouth, Morwena’s voice emanates forth.

“They’ve spontaneously decided on experimenting today starting with the lowest levels.”

Arthur sits upright and stares at the little creature, which closes its mouth and then opens it again.

“You are Wyth-hala, so speak.”

The critter rolls out of the way as Arthur flings the blankets away.  He rushes into the suit he’s hung up for the day and bolts down the stairs, the creature nipping at his heels.  It hops ups to his shoulder as he fumbles for his car keys and when its mouth opens again, Morwena’s voice comes through, worry thick in it.

“Arthur.  Please, please hurry.  They’ve taken the fae and Eames.”

Arthur misses inserting the key into the lock and forgoes the task all together.

***

He wastes no time once he’s at the facility.  Several technicians move out of his path as he storms the halls.  Devin is just exiting his office when Arthur grabs him by the collar and forcibly turns him.

“I wasn’t informed of the experiments today,” Arthur hisses, his hand tightening in Devin’s collar.

“Um, the, uh, the director said not to tell you,” Devin stammers out.

“Where are they,” Arthur demands, shoving Devin back into the wall.

“I can’t…”

Arthur snarls and shoves harder.

“I don’t care what he’s told you you can’t do.  I will kill you and figure it out myself if you don’t,” Arthur hisses.

“Down the hall and to the right,” Devin spits out.

Arthur drops him and sprints down the hall.

“Ah, Arthur, so good of you to join us,” Browning says as Arthur bursts in.

“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” Arthur demands, studiously not looking at the lineup chained to the wall.

“You’ve been…interesting, shall we say,” Browning says contemplatively.  He steeples his hands behind his back and wanders down the length of the room nonchalantly.

“Six supernatural centers going down in the last year,” he continues.  Arthur carefully keeps himself loose at the words.  Browning cuts a glance at him and he smirks.

“I looked into it, you know,” he says casually.  “Fascinating that they all hired an Arthur Levine a month or so before they ended up destroyed.”

Arthur stiffens as Browning makes his way over.  Browning stops to delicately stroke one of the many wicked looking knives sitting out on the counter.

“So noble,” Browning sneers.  “Giving yourself over to save…these monsters.”

He waves a hand at the lineup shackled up before him.  Eames, eyes so red they look like they’re bleeding, lunges forward, howling around the gag in his mouth.  Browning laughs cruelly at the impotency of the threat when Eames is choked back by the chains that bind him.

“What happens now?  Your little monsters can’t save you,” Browning smirks and pulls a gun out of his suit.

Arthur regards him calmly, his rage calcified into a cold diamond thing, and says, even and sure, “I’m sure I’ll do just fine on my own.”

***

There were stories, once, of a child who smiled like the sun and had eyes so warm and bright.  Some called him an angel, chubby cheeked and beautiful.  Others called him a devil, a demon in disguise that smiled to lure the weak in.

Still others called him destiny as they watched him, with his eyes wide and innocent, speak of outcomes that soon came.  They hunted him and watched as he carefully dispensed death with the lisping words of a child who hadn’t quite figured out speech.  Then they lost him when he ran.  The day his mother died, the boy with the power to determine the future disappeared.

They sought the child and still seek a child, gnashing their teeth at the prize that got away.

But children grow and boys become men and so it became that Arthur spoke about fate again.

***

Browning gurgles, choking slowly on his own blood.  His eyes dart to Arthur, who kneels down beside him and taps his fingers, clinical and quick, to his throat.  He looks dispassionately at the bloody knife in his hands, at the red slowly spreading from the gash over Browning’s heart.

He wipes the knife down on Browning’s shirt and tells him with a sigh, “You’ve gotten old.  You should have retired years ago, when you could barely keep up with a child.”

Browning’s eyes focus in on Arthur’s face then, alarm spreading across the rapid paling of his features, and Arthur gives him a flash of teeth.

“Do you remember me?” Arthur leans in and taps the knife against Browning’s cheek.

“I remember you, you know,” Arthur says quietly and Browning has a flash to a day twenty years ago, clearer than any other memory in his head.  “You wanted to kill me.  But it didn’t quite work, did it?”

It was the day he ordered one of his men to shoot a small boy.  It was also the day he watched that same man shoot himself when the boy ordered him to, spoke that his fate was to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger.

Cold fear seizes him and he flaps his hands uselessly, trying to get himself away.

“You’re going to die,” Arthur tells him.  It’s neither a question nor a command, merely a dispensation of fact.  “You’re going to die choking on your own blood by the hands of a monster that you tried to kill.  It’s your fate.”

And then he smiles, that glittering angelic smile, with his eyes bright and sadistic.

“Isn’t that ironic?”

***

Eames tackles Arthur to the ground in a tight hug the moment Arthur releases him.  He presses a furious kiss to Arthur’s mouth, smearing blood as he goes.

“Darling,” Eames says reverently.

“Hello,” Arthur replies, a small fond smile creeping across his face.

“Darling,” Eames repeats.  “You’re the most divine creature.”

He crowds in even closer to whisper, as if it’s a secret and not common knowledge among their kind, “You’re the most dangerous out of us all aren’t you, you wonderful creature you.”

He sounds incredibly proud and it makes Arthur feel shy.

“I suppose,” he says bashfully.

“You are,” Eames insists with a soft kiss to Arthur’s forehead.  “Absolutely beautiful and deadly.”

“Oh god,” Morwena groans, head banging back against the wall. “Can you help us out first and then get to the kissing?  No one actually wants to watch this.”

“Right,” Arthur says and shoves Eames, who obligingly rolls off.

“Do you need someplace to stay?” Arthur inquires as he releases the witch.

She stares at him and then flexes her wrists.

“No,” she says primly, “I have a home, as do the others.”

She pauses and regards Arthur with a critical eye.

“I suppose I make a good stew though and you would be welcome to come over for it,” she offers casually.

“I’ll be sure to arrange a time for it,” Arthur nods.

Eames barrels forward then to wrap himself around Arthur and to bare his teeth at the witch.  She raises an eyebrow coolly at him over Arthur’s shoulder and waves dismissively.

“I do not want him,” she assures Eames. “I have my own already.”

“Just making sure you know, Morwena,” Eames says and burrows his face into Arthur’s neck.

“Oh my god,” Arthur groans, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his fingers.  “No more dominance displays for the night.  I’m so done.”

Eames rumbles out something that could be assent but could just as easily be a negative so Arthur leaves it be and moves forward awkwardly to free the others, Eames still draped over him like a cape.

“Are you done yet?” Eames whines as Arthur keys in the passcode to open all the cells.

“Yes,” Arthur says flatly.  “Are you done being petulant?”

“Yes,” Eames says perkily.  “Come along darling.  Everyone here is more than capable of taking care of themselves.  We can go home now.”

“He’s right,” Morwena says and shoos them out.  “We’ll take care of everything.  Just go before he decides the floor is clean enough to mate on.”

“If you’re sure?”

Morwena’s face softens and she says, “Arthur, just because you are fate doesn’t mean we can’t help you in making ours.”

“I’m not fate,” Arthur grumbles.

Morwena laughs, a tinkling sound far younger than her years, and says, “Oh, Arthur, you are.  Your mother was destiny but you truly are fate.  Now go, Eames looks like he’s seriously contemplating one of the cells as an acceptable mating place.”

“I am not,” Eames shouts from where he’s studiously not looking at any of the cells.

Morwena shoots Arthur an amused look and then turns away to coordinate the rest of the people milling about.

“If you’re absolutely sure,” Arthur repeats.

She waves an absent hand at him as she directs one of the older elementals to find out whether or not the facility is clear before ordering another to set flame to the whole place.  Arthur is about to ask one last time when Eames grabs him around the waist and whisks him out.

“We’re going home,” Eames says.

“Morwena might have needed help,” Arthur points out.

“The day that woman needs help is the day the world ends,” Eames retorts.  “We’re going home.”

“Alright then,” Arthur acquiesces and Eames flashes him the biggest kid on Christmas smile he’s ever seen.

***

Mal and Eames get along like oil and water, though Arthur is at the point where he’s mostly sure they do it out of enjoyment than any real hatred.  Mal calls Eames a hooligan who’s out to soil Arthur’s virgin sensibilities, ignoring the fact that that ship has long since sailed.  Eames happily fires back by calling Mal a harpy who is with Cobb because he’s easy to manipulate but bad in bed.  Arthur isn’t sure they’re capable of interacting with one another any other way.

Eames sails into the kitchen, looking larger than ever after six months of steady meals and regular exercise, to press a kiss to Arthur’s temple and then to shout, “Is Cobb actually able to keep up with you in bed?  It’s been quiet,” at Mal, who swears back at him in colorful French before setting his eyebrows on fire for the hundredth time.

“This really isn’t a good look for you,” Arthur remarks placidly as Eames shifts back and forth in an attempt to regrow his eyebrows quickly.

“No?  You don’t think I look dashing without my brows?”  Eames pouts ferociously.

“You look horrifying.  Too much forehead,” Ariadne remarks from where she has her toast piled high with half the jam jar.

“You wound me,” Eames gasps and clasps a hand to his heart.

“Your face wounds me,” Ariadne fires back childishly and then shoves as much of her toast as she can into her mouth in one shot.

Robert comes stumbling in, one of Saito’s shirts hanging off of him and settles down in front of the plate that has the least burnt of Mal’s breakfast attempts.  He yawns hugely and then tucks in, blearily sawing at his bacon.  Saito arrives regally and silently moments later, Yusuf in tow looking slightly singed and Cobb babbling about how they should’ve just stolen the secrets of the formula Yusuf is attempting to recreate.

The kitchen grows in noise and then it ebbs as people remember that they have jobs and lives and gradually flow out to get to those on time.  It’s only twenty minutes later that Eames presses a deep kiss to Arthur and leaves for the kindergarten.

“I told you,” Mal says after he leaves.

“Did you now?”

“You needed a someone,” Mal nods, smug at being validated.

“I did not,” Arthur retorts.

“No,” Mal allows, “but you are happier with one now than you were with just us.”

Arthur turns to look at her, to take in the way the sun falls on her in the way it always does.  It makes her look golden, her hair a shining fiery cloud about her.  Her mouth is curved into a small knowing smile and her eyes are soft.

“Yeah,” Arthur breathes out and turns to watch Eames amble away.  He watches as Eames stops at the end of their road to turn and wave hugely.  Arthur waves back and waits until Eames turns back around to look back at Mal.

“Yeah,” he says again.  “I am.”


End file.
